The defenseman grins through the linesman’s arm. “You gonna whine? Or you gonna take a penalty like you always do?”
I wrench free from Weston’s grip and drive a gloved fist into the guy’s chest. One last stupid shove.
The ref’s arm snaps up. “Roughing. Two minutes!”
Of fucking course.
I don’t look at Keller.
I skate straight to the penalty box and drop onto the narrow bench. Chest still heaving, I shove my stick at the attendant and gnaw on my mouthguard.
Two minutes.
Two minutes to watch my team try to clean up my mess.
I glance up, to the spot where I clocked Tori. She’s still there.
For one heartbeat, our eyes lock through the plexiglass. Her gaze steady, unreadable.
Controlled.
Then she blinks and the moment’s gone.
Slips away, like the goal I didn’t make.
She bites her lip, her fingers tightening on that gold chain.
Then she steps out and walks up the aisle without looking back.
And I’m trapped behind glass, watching her leave.
CHAPTER 35
TORI
Ileave the arena with a giant pit in my stomach. I can’t sit there and watch Bennett unravel in real time.
It hurts too much.
Knowing I failed — at everything.
The fund.
Bennett.
I was supposed to help him keep it together.
Instead, I unwound him inch by inch, until all that’s left is rage and regret.
Somehow I made everything worse.
On the way back to my apartment, I watch the game on my phone. The small screen glows in my hand in the pitch-black backseat, the lights of the city whizzing by. Bennett sits the bench the entire second period. Morrison scores and the teams are tied by the time I’m dropped off.
I hurry up to my apartment and flip the television to the game, sitting on my sofa in the dark. The camera pans to the Crushers bench, Coach saying something inaudible to Bennett. The commentators chirpabout his probation earlier in the season and I close my eyes. I hope Bennett doesn’t watch the broadcast later tonight.
The third period starts and Bennett’s back on the ice. The puck drops and he explodes, taking control and kicking it to Weston. He slides it to Morrison and I dig my nails into my palm, holding my breath as Morrison approaches the goal. One glance, and then he snaps a shot.
Thwack.
